french and english poete AND writter, who will randomly post.
Fandom i propably will write about (thank the brain that never stop) :
Marvel, Harry Potter, DC
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4. Read this, more warning and description
After the Red Room, she developed bad eyesight so now she has to wear contacts or glasses
Despite being a deadly assassin, she is very afraid of all of the creepy bugs
She never really learned how to drive or ever got her drivers license after the Red Room. She has a motorcycle license, though
She can do a perfect English accent if she wanted to, she just uses her Russian one for fun.
Unlike Natasha, she wasn’t trained as a spy. Instead, she was trained as purely an assassin. She can still spy and stuff, but it’s not as refined as Natasha and the other spy-focused widows
Since she’s aroace in the comics, she’s aroace here. Also a large part of that is cause of the people and guards at the red room. She doesn’t want anything to do with any of that
Natasha gave Clint her arrow necklace, and after the events of Hawkeye, he mailed it to Yelena, with a note that said “she would want you to have it -C.B.”
Her favorite color is green
She absolutely hates when the temp is higher than 65 degrees (f). Since she grew up in the Red Room (which is in Russia and they probably kept it cold)
She lies a lot. Even when she doesn’t mean to. She had to lie to survive in the red room, even if she was mostly trained to be an assassin
She has great abs. And just muscles in general (this isn’t me being gay at all guys, wdym???)
She likes to prank the other thunderbolts by just randomly putting hot sauce in their food sometimes.
She absolutely hates kangaroos
She likes to chase things with a ladder
Her preferred weapon isn’t a gun, instead it’s a knife
After the blip, she felt guilty that she hadn’t been able to free any more widows, so she throws herself back into her work
She has different nicknames for people, like “Talia” for Natasha, “Beyonce” for Bucky, and “Samantha” for Sam
She named her guinea pig Cucumber and it’s best friends with Fanny
Sometimes she just shows up at Kate Bishop’s apartment for no reason other than she was bored and wanted to annoy someone
She got drunk of of just hot sauce one time, because she drank so much of it. Don’t ask me how, I have no clue
And I’ll probably add more as time goes on but this is all I have so far
Natasha Romanoff as a Girlfriend - Cuddling Edition
Natasha is NOT a cuddler. She hates physical touch, she thinks cuddling should be outgrown by age 11, and thinks having your body pressed up to someone else’s is just weird.
…or so she claims.
Because she’s never able to relax when she’s not touching you. Whenever you’re in the room and you’re not touching, her eyes are glued to you. She barely blinks, it’s scary. She’s always trying to sit or stand as close to you as possible, so her hand can “accidentally” brush yours, or her leg can “accidentally” press against yours.
And at home, especially when she’s sleepy?
You’re trapped. You can’t go ANYWHERE, because she is ALWAYS ON TOP OF YOU. And this is Natasha Romanoff we’re talking about. She is STRONG. Most of the time it’s cute, but too bad for you if you need to pee and she’s wrapped around you like a koala.
She hugs you close all through the night, because it’s the only way she can sleep. Her grip is always a little too tight, and there’s something desperate in the way she holds onto you, which she’ll never admit.
Post Infinity War headcanons because I want to hurt you
— Clint called Natasha right away after his family disappeared. But he never went to see her in person. He couldn’t face any of them, thinking that he should’ve done more, and it was all his fault.
— Natasha was awake for several days straight. Not eating, not drinking, just phoning Yelena over and over, praying she’d pick up. Steve was able to get her to drink a bit of water and not dehydrate herself to death. Bruce was the one who finally convinced her to put the phone down and sleep. She spent most of the night sobbing in his arms before the exhaustion finally kicked in.
— After killing Thanos, Thor continually brought it up in almost every conversation. Trying to remind himself of his success rather than his failure, and convince himself he did everything he could, and he was still a hero. Of course, he didn’t really believe it.
— Tony would dream about losing Peter every night, and wake up crying and grasping at the air. Pepper would try to comfort him, but he wouldn’t let her. He’d go downstairs and watch the videos Peter made documenting his trips which Tony always told him he didn’t want to see.
— Rocket tried planting Groot’s dust to see if it would grow another Groot, like Big Groot’s twig grew Baby Groot. Of course, it didn’t, but Rocket kept the pot safe just in case one day he might.
— Steve tried to reassure everyone, and look for anything positive about the situation. But in private, he cried himself to sleep looking at pictures of Bucky and Sam.
— Bruce would sneak out into the woods at night and beat himself until his arms were covered in bruises and he couldn’t close his fists, screaming at Hulk to come out.
— Nebula went to Vormir to see the place Gamora was murdered because of her. She spent hours just sitting on the edge of the cliff, legs dangling over. She considered jumping, but knew Rocket wouldn’t be able to handle losing another friend.
Summary: You grew up in a foster care facility until you were six years old. Happy memories were distant, until a new, green-eyed high school volunteer started one day. You became her precious baby, and she became the first, and last, mother figure in your life. You wish you remembered her name, but you were suddenly placed with a foster family one day without ever getting to say goodbye.
Now, you're a quiet university student. But why does your regular customer, Wanda, make memories of the facility swirl in your head? Why does her touch feel so familiar? And when was she going to tell you she's married?
Word Count: 8.7k
Warnings: 18+, age gap, mommy kink, heavy Freudian themes, pseudo-incest, dom/sub undertones, suggestive, a little emotional regression, angst and fluff, finding comfort in each other in a possibly unhealthy way
A/N: first time writing something like so pls be gentle and read the warnings
—
The memories of the foster care facility had been popping into your mind more often lately. They were usually a mixture of sad or painful events. Prospective parents passing you over for kids who were brighter, more talkative, or openly craving affection. Volunteers assuming you didn't want to be bothered, leaving you to read or draw alone at the table. The facility staff scolding you, frustrated that you didn't try harder to be chosen.
It wasn't that you didn't try on purpose.
You had been there since the day you were born, spending six years inside that building. When you were a newborn, people thought you were too much responsibility. A blank slate where one slip-up could ruin a life. Then you became a toddler, making friends with the other kids. You would play outside, screaming at the top of your lungs and laughing until you couldn't breathe.
But then one day, your best friend left with a foster family. Then another. And another. You were happy for them, but beneath it all, you started to close in on yourself. You grew scared of the pain of opening up to someone who could leave at any moment. So, you started to keep your distance. You talked less, stayed inside, and kept your head down.
But one day, shortly after you turned six, a happy memory formed.
You were drawing at one of the tables by yourself. The sleeves of your oversized t-shirt were folded up, and the hem fell past your shorts. The other kids were talking excitedly with one another, a noise you were used to drowning out.
Suddenly, a hand larger than yours, adorned with rings, appeared next to your crayons.
"Hi," a soft, slightly accented voice said.
You turned your head, meeting wide, green eyes. The corners of them crinkled as she smiled brightly, her face level with yours from where she crouched beside the table. You scanned her face, noticing her dark brown hair before looking down at her name tag. It listed her as a volunteer.
You wish you had committed her name to memory, but assuming she would be like the rest, you hadn't looked closely.
"Hi," you mumbled, wanting to get back to your coloring.
She picked up a blue crayon, twirling it between her fingers. "I'm a new volunteer here. I saw you coloring and wondered if I could join you."
You looked down at your drawing. She would probably get bored and leave to play with the others. The thought made you pout as you stared at the yellow duck you had drawn.
"I guess..." you responded quietly, continuing your coloring to distract yourself.
She giggled softly. Before you could react, she lightly pinched your cheek between her index finger and thumb. You turned to her, her fingers still holding your cheek, and gave her a little glare. She only giggled more.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said, trying to sound apologetic despite her grin. "You just looked too cute."
You looked away, your cheeks heating up. You shook your head, forcing her fingers to fall away. "If you're gonna draw, do it quietly," you said with the biggest sigh your small body could muster.
With one last giggle, she pulled out the small, plastic chair beside you. She settled in, grabbing a sheet of paper from the stack in the center of the table. You could see her glancing at your drawing repeatedly before finally starting her own.
You sat silently, trying to keep your lines smooth even though they always wobbled in the middle. Other kids came up to her, asking her to play and wanting to get to know the new volunteer. Your chest tightened every time, even when you tried not to care.
But she always rejected them kindly, telling them she was in the middle of spending time with you. Your heart warmed just a little, despite your best efforts to act indifferent.
Half an hour into drawing, she started to speak to you. She acted as though you were answering her questions even when you stayed silent, the smile never leaving her voice.
You learned she was a high school senior completing volunteer hours. You found out she had an annoying twin brother who always brought up that he was a few minutes older. She told you about being from Sokovia, how she had only been in the States for a few years, the foods she liked, and the classes that bored her. She talked about her plans for the future, wanting to do something meaningful with her life.
Time passed like that—her talking about herself while you sat there, pretending not to listen but absorbing it all.
When she stopped talking, you peeked up. She was holding her drawing out to you with a shy grin.
It was a drawing of you. More specifically, of you sitting right in front of her, the little splotches of color from your own paper captured in her sketch. Even though there were other kids behind you, you were the only person in the drawing.
Your eyes widened as you looked between her and the paper. She was about to speak when one of the workers called your name, announcing it was bath time. Disappointment washed over you. Surely she would find someone more interesting after this.
You gathered your drawing, but her warm hand enveloped yours completely, stopping you. Your eyes met her green ones.
"Can we trade?" she asked, smiling softly as she looked down at the paper in your hands.
You weren't attached to your drawing. You had messed up the lines far too many times for it to look like anything, and it wasn't anywhere near what she had made. But you found yourself nodding shyly before you could think twice.
She swapped the papers but kept her hand on top of yours, holding it there for a moment. "See you later, alligator," she said gently. Her eyes didn't waver, and somehow, you believed her.
"See you," you whispered.
Her hand finally released yours. You hopped off the plastic chair and walked across the room toward the worker. You looked back, fully prepared to see her talking to another kid. Instead, you found her watching you leave with delicate affection in her eyes.
She started coming every other day. Sometimes she wore her backpack, arriving straight from school. On colder days, she would stop at the coat rack to hang her jacket. But despite those little differences, her searching for you was a constant. She would locate you with a single glance, walking over quickly with a bright smile that lit up the room.
You always ignored her for the first few minutes while she told you about her day. She would join you in whatever you were doing, even if you were just sitting silently outside, staring at the sky. At first, she sat an arm's length away. But as the months went on, the distance closed. And your heart opened.
You remember the first time you sought her out. It was right after a nap with the other kids your age. Bad dreams had plagued you—memories of the friends who had left, telling you that you would never be loved. You had gripped the front of your oversized shirt with small hands, your chest aching because you believed them. Tears streamed down your cheeks, even as you tried to swipe them away with the back of your hand.
It was then that she showed up. The door opened just a crack so the hallway light wouldn't flood the dark room. You could recognize her silhouette easily by that point. Shimmying out of your blankets, you quietly stepped over the other kids, your vision blurred with tears.
You remember her surprised face. Her eyes widened when she saw you standing right in front of her, forcing her to look down. Your fingers curled into the denim of her jeans while you sniffled. She crouched down, her eyebrows furrowed with worry as she brushed the tears off your cheeks with her thumbs.
"What's wrong, baby?" she whispered, keeping her voice low so she wouldn't wake anyone.
You shook your head, staring at her with shiny eyes. You let go of her jeans and lifted your arms. She scooped you up immediately, rocking you back and forth. Holding one hand against the back of your head, she pressed your cheek into her shoulder. You breathed in. The comforting scent of sweet flowers, like the ones that grew by the swing set outside, washed over your senses.
More bright memories formed after that, multiplying over the weeks. You started talking a little more, telling her what you planned to draw. You sought her out whenever your shoes were untied. When you watched the sky, you sat in her lap instead of leaving that empty space between you.
In the picture books you read, the mom was always there for her child, whether they were sad or happy. Always wiping away tears after a bad dream. Always listening to them talk, even if it was nonsense about nothing at all.
Just like she did for you.
You remembered when one of the other kids got fostered. Their foster parents had come to pick them up from the facility, and the way the new mother beamed when the child called her "Mommy" always stuck with you.
Wanting to see that same look on her face, you walked up to her the next day just like you had after your nightmare. You tugged on the hem of her shirt to make her look down, tilting your chin to meet her smiling eyes.
"Hi, mommy," you said quietly, your voice shy.
Her eyes widened. Tears immediately began to shine in them before she scooped you up, hugging you tightly. She held you like that for a long time, her breathing shaky against your shoulder. You remember wondering if you had done something wrong. But then she spoke, her voice watery and thick with emotion.
"If only I were older... more stable..." she whispered, her voice shaking. "Then I could take you away from this place."
You hadn't understood why she was crying. She didn't have to take you away from there. You were happy as long as she came to visit. You thought it would last forever.
After that day, you became her precious baby. She would call you that every time she greeted you. She started staying past her volunteer hours, right up until the moment you had to go to sleep. The farewell was always the same.
"See you later, alligator."
"Bye-bye, mommy."
She would smile brightly whenever you called her that, as if you had given her the greatest gift in the world. Holding hands while walking, sitting in her lap while she read to you, her pushing you on the swings. They were pure, happy memories.
But the sunny days ended abruptly.
A couple who had visited you a few weeks prior appeared out of nowhere one afternoon. You had assumed they would choose someone else, since they had stopped talking to you weeks ago. Instead, they walked up to you with small smiles that didn't reach their eyes and told you that you were leaving with them.
She wasn't there that day. You never got to say goodbye. All you had from her was the drawings she'd trade with you that you begged to take with you.
You were in another state by the next day. In a spacious new apartment, a new room, a new school. You tried to be grateful for it all, but your foster parents weren't parents. You would try to get their attention, showing them your grades or asking for help, but their polite, distant smiles made you realize something quickly. The love you had read about in picture books wouldn't be found here.
It was more of an arrangement of convenience. They received money from the state for fostering you, and they got to look like a complete family from the outside. Even after they adopted you once the six month period passed, inside the home, you were just a guest.
That's how you lived for the next twelve years until you became an adult. And for the two years after that, you were on your own, refusing to accept their charity anymore.
Frankly, it wasn't something you chose to reminisce on. The ache in your chest from remembering her, from never being able to see her again, would always feel too painful.
But it's the green eyes in front of you that had been awakening these memories lately.
"Hi, honey, not too busy today?" Wanda asks, pulling an array of fruits and vegetables from her reusable bag and placing them onto the conveyor belt.
You pick up a package of cherry tomatoes, scan it, and set it to the side. "No, not today. It's been pretty quiet," you respond, continuing to scan the rest of the items.
You make a conscious effort to keep your head down, not wanting her to see the excitement on your face from her arrival.
You met Wanda a few weeks ago when you first started this job as a checkout clerk. It fits into your university class schedule well and pays decently because of the nicer neighborhood it's located in.
Your first day had been horrendous. In the last few minutes of your shift, a customer began complaining about their total, claiming they had a coupon that should reduce the price significantly. You tried scanning the coupon they held out, but it came back invalid every single time. Even when you tried to explain the situation calmly, they began to raise their voice until everyone in the front of the store was looking your way.
Situations like these have never been easy for you. You hated being the center of attention. You hoped they would just get it out of their system, pay, and leave so you could go home, but they wouldn't budge.
It wasn't until a voice came from behind them that the situation resolved itself.
"If you can't afford it, then just say so and move on so the rest of us can have our turn."
You craned your head back, meeting a pair of green eyes that you could swear you've seen before. It reminded you instantly of the volunteer who doted on you when you were still at the facility. But this woman had reddish-orange hair and no accent in her voice.
The customer's face turned beet red. They finally tapped their card against the reader, grabbed their bags, and walked away muttering under their breath.
The woman stared the customer down all the way until they exited the sliding glass doors. The moment she looked back at you, her expression instantly softened into something bright.
"I'm sorry you have to deal with customers like that, sweetheart. I don't think I've seen you here before. I'm Wanda. What's your name?"
There was something about the cadence of her voice that made your heart beat faster. The array of crayons on the small table back at the facility immediately came to mind. You quickly shook the thought off when she gazed at you expectantly.
You introduced yourself shyly, admitting it was your first day.
It took off from there.
Wanda visited a few times a week on random days, except for Fridays, which were a constant. You'd share short conversations with her. She'd stay longer sometimes on days where there was no line, chatting about her own time in university and letting you vent about stuck-up professors
Thankfully, today is Friday.
Unfortunately, you're exhausted from classes and your roommates being loud in the living room. It was taking everything in you to not close your eyes. The sunlight glinting off the cars in the parking lot were simultaneously blinding you and keeping you awake, but it was getting harder to keep your shoulders upright.
You take a breath, forcing a smile onto your face when you notice Wanda helping pack her groceries. You've reminded her over and over that this is part of what you're paid to do, but she never listens.
"They might replace you with me at this rate," you say jokingly, the tiredness dulling the inflections in your voice.
Wanda looks up from one of the bags, raising a brow. "Then would you be the customer?"
You huff out a little laugh. "This grocery store is a bit out of my price range."
"Then that arrangement won't do," she responds with a small smile, looking back down. "How else would I see you and that shy smile?"
Your gaze drops down to the scanner, heat rising up your neck to your cheeks and ears.
"See?" Wanda points out, laughing brightly.
Suddenly, her voice drops into something quieter. "Are you sleeping enough, darling?" she asks, gathering her bags nonchalantly. You see her peering at you when she thinks you don't notice.
Don't bother her with your problems, the rational part of you reminds you. It was one thing to complain about professors. It was a whole other thing to tell her about your living situation.
"I slept enough," you respond, meeting her gaze with a smile that doesn't reach your eyes.
She stares at you, scanning your face carefully before giving you a quick smile, like she's thought of something satisfactory.
"Do you get off soon?" she asks, glancing at the watch resting on her left wrist.
You glance at the register screen, finding that you're almost at the finish line.
"I only have around ten more minutes." You breathe out a sigh of relief.
She looks to the side for a moment, nervously biting her lower lip.
You can't help but find her beautiful with the way the sunlight shining in splays perfectly across her face. She's wearing a plain blue blouse and white trousers. No logos. No heavy gold rings or designer bags like the women who usually patronize this neighborhood. Just a silver watch on her left wrist. That modesty was one of the things that had made it easier for you to talk to her.
"I know your parents probably told you not to follow strangers. But hopefully, I'm not a stranger at this point," she starts, speaking quickly. "Would you like to take a walk with me after this at the park across the street? I saw there were a few food trucks, so maybe we could grab an early dinner?"
Frankly, your parents hadn't told you much of anything. You had figured out how to navigate the world on your own. But Wanda isn't a stranger, and the park across the street is always crowded. You wouldn't be in any danger. Perhaps it was naive of you, but with Wanda, you never felt afraid. Just her presence made you feel safe.
The prospect of spending more than a few minutes with her makes something in your chest flutter. It's a feeling you haven't felt since you were six years old.
"O-okay," you stutter, mentally cursing yourself for the slip.
Wanda beams at you, adjusting the bags of groceries hanging on her wrists. "I'll be waiting outside for you, honey. Take your time coming out," she calls out, already turning around and walking out the door.
You watch her walk away before finally turning back to the register. You stare down at the scanner in front of you. Your bottom lip finds its way between your teeth, but it doesn't stop the smile forming on your lips.
The sound of footsteps approaching cuts the moment short. You quickly smooth down the front of your apron, erasing the smile from your face before looking up to meet the next customer a few paces away.
"Next," you call out politely.
—
You step out into the parking lot, squinting against the blinding rays. Lifting your arms, you stretch your tight shoulders and release a yawn. Your t-shirt rides up with the motion, the hem resting just above your belly button before you finally let your arms drop.
Looking around, you find Wanda leaning against her car a few paces away. She's already staring in your direction, but her gaze is low. It takes a few steps in her direction before she finally glances up, her eyes widening slightly before she quickly slaps a smile onto her face.
"Ready to go, darling?" she asks, her voice a bit breathless.
You adjust your bag hanging on your shoulder before responding. "All set."
It's a quiet, comfortable walk across the street. You and Wanda stroll between the food trucks, pointing out options before ultimately deciding on sandwiches. Wanda pays for the food before you even have a chance to unzip your wallet.
"I-I could've paid for my own food," you mumble, a stubborn pout forming on your lips.
You both take a seat on an open bench facing the pond. Wanda turns her torso toward you, her expression softening into something you can't quite name. There's a distant sadness in her eyes that doesn't match the small smile on her face.
Before you can think to look away, she reaches out and pinches your cheek gently between her index finger and thumb.
"Let's just say I wanted to treat you. I'm the one who invited you out, after all," she says gently.
Her hand falls away, but her fingers linger close for a moment. Her gaze remains locked on your face, watching you quietly, as if she's studying you.
You stare back at her, your eyes wide. The familiarity of the gesture has your mind racing, your thoughts rushing straight to the one person you could never forget. You never allowed anyone to touch your face like this. Even when friends tried to do it jokingly, you always flinched away. It felt like if you allowed anyone else to repeat the gesture, you would start forgetting her. The memory of the first person who loved you.
Wanda isn't her, you chastise yourself internally.
Your heart twists sharply in your chest. A wave of guilt washes over you, eating away at your stomach just for letting Wanda cross that line without a fight.
But for some reason, it didn't feel uncomfortable. Usually, when others even reached for your face, you felt a wave of unease. If anything, Wanda's touch felt like coming home. The realization makes your heart ache—you don't want the volunteer to fade from your memory.
You look down at the bench, focusing on the arm's length of distance separating you two. The sandwiches she bought sit untouched between you. For a few long moments, the chatter of people walking by the pond fades into background noise as your thoughts consume you.
It isn't until Wanda speaks that you finally snap out of it.
"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, darling," she starts quietly. Her expression looks distant, as if she's watching old memories float past.
You open your mouth to tell her the truth, that it didn't make you uncomfortable at all, but she continues, forcing your jaw to snap shut so you can hear her clearly.
"There's someone I've been missing for a very long time. Your smile and that cute pout... they remind me of her so much," she whispers, meeting your eyes with a sad smile. "She would be your age by now. Sometimes I wonder what she's doing. If she's eating okay, if she's receiving the love she deserves... if she still remembers me. But I always hope she's happy, even if that happiness didn't come from me."
The ache in Wanda's voice is almost palpable. It makes your chest tighten in the same way it does whenever you let yourself look back at the past.
Wanda's expression suddenly morphs into a grimace. "Maybe this is just me easing my own guilt. I'm sorry if this is bothersome, sweetheart. It must be weird, being compared to someone you've never met. But talking to you recently... it's been making me think of her more."
Her eyes widen suddenly, her posture stiffening as her voice turns frantic.
"That's not why I've been talking to you, though!" she exclaims, her voice rising enough to draw a glance from a passing couple. "I love our conversations. Genuinely. Seeing you so tired today just made me want to do something to help, even if it wasn't much."
You look out at the pond, watching the light breeze track ripples across the surface.
So she's missing someone too, you think.
The realization eases the guilt churning in your stomach. The puzzle pieces fit together now. The comfort and protection you only ever found from one person—the most important person in your life—had suddenly reappeared in a matter of weeks through Wanda. It makes sense now.
Wanda reminds you of her.
Secretly, you've known this all along. Probably from the very moment you locked eyes with her at the register.
You're not replacing her. The thought immediately making your frantic mind rest. She'll always be your mommy.
You and Wanda are just finding comfort in each other.
"Can we keep meeting like this?" you ask shyly, turning your head toward her. You let your eyes drift up to the sky. "There's someone I've been missing too. When I talk to you, I feel like I remember her more clearly."
You let your gaze drop back to Wanda's face. She's staring at you, her green eyes bright, as if she's looking right at a memory.
"Of course," she breathes.
You shift on the bench, scooting a little bit closer to her. It reminds you of when you were younger—the distance closing slowly, piece by piece.
—
You step into your shared apartment, barely sparing a glance at the kitchen counter littered with dirty plates and utensils. You make your way down the hall, feeling the heavy bass of music vibrating from beneath one of your roommates' doors.
Closing your bedroom door, you lean your back against it and finally breathe out. You let your bag drop to the floor, the heavy thud of it barely audible over the noise outside.
Reaching up, you let your fingertips brush slowly across your cheekbone. You can still feel the lingering warmth from where Wanda’s hand had cupped your face before you parted ways. Her eyes had locked onto yours for a long second before she finally turned around.
You can't help but wonder who it is that she's missing so desperately. But you didn't want to ask. You know that if she threw the question back at you, you would have a hard time answering.
How do you explain to a woman you just met recently that you miss a teenage volunteer from fourteen years ago? How do you explain that you still can't forget her? It would be like admitting to Wanda that she reminds you of the only person you ever viewed as a mother.
You walk across the small, cold space of your room and pull open the bottom drawer of your desk. Reaching inside, you run your fingertips across the rough, waxy lines of the papers hidden at the bottom.
All of her drawings are stored here. Some are messy pieces you had colored together. Most are the clean, detailed sketches drawn just by her.
You miss her so much it aches. The parallels between her and Wanda are almost eerie, pulling your heart in entirely different directions.
But it's exactly that conflict that makes you want to see Wanda again. You want to feel that safety you haven't felt since you were six years old.
You pick up the very first drawing she ever gave you. The sketch of you sitting and drawing at the table.
"Is this okay, mommy?" you whisper into the quiet room, the memory of her smiling green eyes flashing behind your eyelids. Wanda's face appears for a split second before fading away.
—
You start meeting with Wanda every Friday after your shift. She's always waiting for you, leaning against her car, her smile dazzling the moment she notices you.
The second time you meet, she takes you to a cute bakery down the street. You've noticed the inviting exterior before, but knowing the area, you knew it would be far out of your budget. Wanda doesn't let you pay, even when you try handing the barista your card. She just glances at you, raising a single brow. Your arm automatically lowers, and Wanda pays anyway.
It reminds you instantly of the look She would give you when you tried to avoid bedtime at the facility, just wanting to spend more time with her. You would automatically listen back then, wanting to be her obedient baby.
With Wanda, you get to experience many of the things you never could in the city. A flaky, buttery croissant at the bakery. A French restaurant you always wanted to try but could never get a reservation for even if you could afford it. Even just sitting peacefully on the park bench. You're always in a rush, jumping from classes to work, then back home to study. This is the first time you've truly gotten to take in the city you've lived in for fourteen years.
You and Wanda always end up at the park, no matter where you go first. You sit on the same bench in front of the pond. It's where you have the deep conversations that aren't just about university or daily life. It's there that you find out Wanda is the chairwoman for a massive charity—one even you've heard of. She tells you it was something she always wanted to do. To do something meaningful with her life.
The phrasing is so familiar. You remember Her saying the exact same thing. It makes you look at Wanda differently. The passing interest you had because of her looks and her similarities to the person you miss, growing into something much greater with every meeting.
It's your third meeting when you learn more about the person she's missing. You make a passing comment without really thinking. It's only then that you realize how much more willing you're to speak lately, usually being so reserved.
"When I was a kid, I used to think all ducks were yellow," you recount, your voice airy from reminiscing. "Then I found out only the ducklings are."
You let out a little giggle. Staring at the ducks slowly crossing the pond with little ducklings following behind, you think of the yellow duck drawing you made the day you first traded drawings. Your feet swing back and forth beneath the bench, your fingers curled tightly over the front edge of the wood.
It's a few moments before the heavy silence really hits you. You turn your head to look at Wanda. She's staring straight ahead at the pond. You track her eyes, finding that she's fixed on the tiny ducklings trailing behind the mother duck.
Her voice is shaky when she finally speaks.
"My precious baby thought the same thing," she says, a watery smile stretching across her face.
Precious baby.
You close your eyes, biting the inside of your mouth to stop the emotions threatening to surface. You haven't heard that phrase in fourteen years. Her smiling face immediately comes to mind—the way she would look down at you, crouching to be at eye level before gently stroking your cheek.
"My precious baby."
You always loved it when she called you that. Your lips would immediately curve into a wide grin before you called her your mommy.
Remembering it makes your heart ache for Wanda. From what she's told you, it seems she had to let go of someone she loved, just like you did.
You scooch a bit closer to Wanda, though a sliver of distance still remains between you. As you move, the scent of sweet flowers suddenly washes over your senses.
The swing set. Your cheek pressed against her shoulder.
Your head snaps up, looking for the source, but the tree branches above you just sway gently. It must be the breeze, you think wryly.
But it's that familiar, comforting scent that gives you the confidence.
You reach out, your fingers gently tugging on the hem of Wanda's blouse.
She turns to you. Her green eyes are wide, glimmering with unshed tears, and her mouth is slightly agape. She looks at you as if she's staring straight at a ghost from her past. You figure she must be reminiscing just like you are.
"I'm sure she's out there thriving," you say, your voice adamant despite the slight tremble of your shyness.
Wanda holds her gaze on you, not saying a word. You peer up at the sky, anxiousness setting in the longer she stays silent. Maybe you shouldn't have said anything.
It's only when you feel Wanda's warm palm settle against your cheek that you meet her eyes again. Her expression is soft, her lips curved into a gentle smile. But it's the delicate affection in her green eyes that makes your heart jump. It's how you know she's only looking at you, completely tuning out the crowds of people sitting on the grass and walking by the pond.
Her thumb brushes your cheekbone before tracing lower, brushing slowly against your bottom lip instead.
You feel her movement freeze suddenly. The affection in her eyes remains, but you can see a layer of guilt churning just beneath the surface. She pulls her thumb away from your lip but keeps her palm resting against your cheek.
"I'm sure she is," Wanda whispers. Her voice sounds hopeful, but it's swirling with an array of heavy emotions you can't decipher.
—
With every meeting, you and Wanda only become closer.
Sometimes you’d catch her staring at you in your peripheral vision whenever you looked up at the sky. Watching the clouds drift by and finding shapes in them had become a habit again, just like when you were younger. On clear days, letting the blue expanse amaze you cleared your mind.
You figure that maybe the person Wanda misses used to do the same. The first time you noticed her doing that, you’d honestly felt a bit uncomfortable, but a mixture of guilt lay within that as well.
Because you weren't the person she was thinking of. Maybe seeing you was hurting her more.
It wasn't like you couldn't relate.
After the day Wanda had brushed your lip with her thumb, her touches became more constant. Sometimes she’d rub away the crumbs at the corner of your mouth after you ate a pastry. Sometimes she’d run her fingers through your hair and carefully move stray strands out of your face. Sometimes, when you were sharing a funny customer interaction, her hand would land on your thigh, squeezing it gently as she laughed.
Shame would creep up your neck when your body reacted. You’d press your thighs together, trying to ignore the ache settling in your lower stomach. Your chest warmed from the familiar, comforting touch that you'd only experienced from Her, but now you were feeling the exact same way from Wanda.
Some days, you felt like you were betraying the person you had been forced to leave behind. Even after you were fostered, you had never found that same love. It was a rare, safe feeling that you had reserved just for Her.
But here you were, opening your heart up in the exact same way to someone else.
It was a constant push and pull. You keep reminding yourself that Wanda is a completely different person. They just happen to be similar. You weren't replacing Her. You refuse to.
And it wasn't like you could just walk away from Wanda now. Even in the short period of time you've known her, you've become deeply attached. You sought Wanda out whenever you needed advice, had questions about your university classes, or really just wanted to talk about anything at all. She listened every single time, even when the things you said didn't make much sense or lead anywhere.
Wanda's touch was always kind, but slowly, it began to cross the blurry boundaries between you two. Her hand began to linger higher up your thigh, holding it there and squeezing occasionally. You remembered the intense heat burning through your skin the first time she did it. But whenever you looked up at her, her green eyes were always full of that same gentle, consuming affection.
Sometimes when she looked into your eyes in these moments, her gaze would immediately avert, her lips curving downward like she was upset with herself. She'd blink a few times, her eyes brightening more with every blink before she'd look at you again and let her fingers curve around your thigh confidently.
You know this desire you feel for Wanda is twisted. Wanda reminded you of the only mother figure you had in your life. But, you like Wanda, and being around her feels like you're creating memories that you should've had with Her.
—
It's a month and a half later when you first slip up and tell Wanda a little bit about Her.
You're sitting on the park bench like usual, your arm pressed against Wanda's. You and Wanda had started a book series together. Wanda had the second volume in her hand, reading aloud to you. Your head slowly drifted to the side until it landed on Wanda's shoulder.
You noticed you'd been doing this more often, subconsciously, finding comfort in Wanda whether it be emotionally or physically.
You could hear the smile in her voice as she continued reading. Birds chirped in the distance. Children giggled behind you. But Wanda's voice drowned them all out. It reminded you of sitting outside with Her in front of the swing sets, sitting in her lap as she read one of your picture books to you while pointing at the pictures she liked. You found yourself speaking before you could even think to stop.
"This reminds me of when I was a kid," you murmur wistfully, closing your eyes.
"Did someone else use to read for you?" Wanda asks, her voice unusually tight.
You nod softly, your cheek swishing against her shoulder. "Mhm," you confirm, your voice relaxed. "My mo—"
Your eyes widen. Your posture straightens out. Gnawing lightly on your bottom lip, you look away. You've never talked about Her with anyone before. It felt sacred, like something that was just for you. Your hand tightens around the front of your shirt.
It's confusing. All these habits you used to have starting to come back since you met Wanda.
Wanda’s hand envelops yours, her touch gentle but firm as she coaxes your fingers to release the fabric of your shirt. Sliding her palm against yours, she interlocks your fingers together. She rubs her thumb in slow circles against the back of your hand.
"It's okay if you don't want to talk about the person you miss," she starts slowly. "But if you do... I'm always here, darling." You turn your head automatically, wanting to see Wanda's face that always manages to comfort you.
You don't know how she knew who you were talking about. It feels like Wanda is able to read you with a single glance. It makes you a bit anxious if she can see the feelings you have for her that are muddied by your past.
You meet Wanda's eyes. She's looking at you with an aching softness that you can feel in your bones. Your shoulders droop, melting at the comforting warmth coming from her hand.
Tears glisten in your eyes despite yourself.
It's confusing.
The complicated, messy feelings swirling inside you. There's the intense comfort you're receiving from Wanda, slammed right against the terrifying feeling that you're somehow betraying Her.
But you find your fingers tightening, squeezing Wanda's hand anyway. The motion reminds you instantly of when you used to swing Her hand back and forth while walking around the playground. You tilt your chin up, trying to stop the tears threatening to spill over your lashes.
You hear Wanda inhale shakily. Maybe this is too troublesome for her, you think, trying even harder to rein in your rogue emotions.
Suddenly, Wanda pulls you in closer by your interlocked hands. Her free hand rises to rest firmly against your cheek, her fingers spanning your jaw as she tilts your face up to force you to look at her.
"It's okay to cry," she whispers, her tone incredibly low and soothing. "My baby."
Your eyes widen, a wave of panic hitting you. You know Wanda is probably just seeing someone else in you. You know you shouldn't be letting her call you that. Only one person was ever allowed to use that title.
But you don't stop her.
Instead, a consuming warmth blooms from your chest and outwards. You squeeze her hand tighter. Her thumb brushes slowly against your lips as she gazes down at your mouth. You expect her to freeze like she usually does after a few moments. For the guilt to make her pull away.
But this time, she just continues.
—
Every time you come back to your apartment after meeting Wanda, you always go straight to your desk. You pull out the bottom drawer, running your fingers along the rough, waxy lines of the crayon sketches.
The guilt is starting to ease the longer you meet with her.
This isn't you replacing her, you remind yourself, staring down at the stack of drawings. You're finding something else in Wanda.
You try to ignore the nagging question in your head—the one threatening to shatter the fragile resolution you've finally found.
But what is it that you're finding in Wanda, then?
—
You're sitting on the park bench with Wanda. Your legs are stretched across her lap, your hand locked firmly in hers. Her other hand rests on your knee, her fingers pressed against the bare skin of your inner thigh.
She's telling you about her day while you listen silently, absorbing every word. Your gaze tracks the ducklings as they follow the mother duck across the surface of the pond. Something about the scene makes you speak up suddenly, cutting Wanda off right in the middle of her sentence.
"—and then he told the staff that he knew me, and that I would—"
"Wanda," you interject.
Her eyes widen, her mouth parting slightly as she turns to look at you. You're normally polite, always staying quiet and listening intently until she finishes her thoughts.
"Yes, baby?" she responds, her voice soft but clearly confused by the interruption.
You turn your head toward her. Your heart hammers against your ribs, the sudden rush of adrenaline making your throat tight as the question finally slips past your lips.
"What are we doing?"
She tilts her head, her expression full of feigned confusion, but her eyes tell you everything. She knows exactly what you're referring to.
"We're spending time together," she says with a light chuckle. She brings your joined hands up to her mouth, pressing a soft kiss against the back of your hand.
"I… I know that," you start, your confidence beginning to wane. "I just mean..."
You trail off. You can't bring yourself to say it out loud. You can't ask if she's projecting, or tell her that she somehow makes you feel the exact same safety your mommy did while you also crave a romantic connection. Instead, you just freeze under her gaze, your lower lip trembling slightly.
Wanda leans in closer to you. Her hand slides higher up your thigh until her index finger rests right in the deep crevice where your leg meets your hip. Your breath hitches when she taps her finger in slow, rhythmic beats against the sensitive skin there.
"I know I shouldn't feel this way," she starts. Her face showing the conflicting, messy emotions that are churning inside you. "Not when you remind me..."
She trails off, refusing to finish the sentence. Her lips curve into a soft, vulnerable smile.
"But being with you brings me so much joy," she whispers, her thumb grazing your hip. "I love when you get crumbs all over your lips and I have to brush them away for you. I love when your feet swing under the bench when you're happy. I love hearing your little ramblings. Can that just be enough for now?"
She looks at you, her green eyes wide, desperate, and hopeful.
"Being with you makes me happy too," you admit in a whisper.
Wanda beams at you, the warmth of her hand making your own lips curve upward as well.
Suddenly, a sharp vibration buzzes against your side. You pull out your phone, finding a new text message from your parents. They've been reaching out more often lately. Something about wanting to make up for the time they should've spent being real parents to you.
Are you okay for rent this month? We can send money if you need. Let's meet sometime to catch up over a meal.
You release a tired sigh as you read the text from your adoptive dad.
"Everything okay?" Wanda asks, her voice tinged with worry.
You lock your phone screen without responding to him, looking up with a small smile that falls flat. "Everything's okay," you respond, trying to keep your tone bright. "It's just my parents."
Wanda's hand tightens around your upper thigh suddenly, making you jolt slightly on the bench.
"Did they need something?" Wanda asks.
Her voice is colder than you've ever heard it. The gentle, soft lines of her face are completely gone, her lips pulled into a rigid line.
"Yeah..." you start slowly, still in shock from the sudden shift. "They were just checking to see if I have enough for rent. And... if I want to meet up for a meal."
Her fingers tighten even more against your skin, making a sudden swarm of butterflies erupt in your lower stomach. You try to look away, but Wanda releases your joined hands, bringing her palm up to scoop your jaw and tilt your chin back up.
Her eyes are incredibly dark as she stares down at you. You know you should probably feel afraid of the intensity radiating off her, but instead, the butterflies morph into a low, throbbing ache that makes you shift slightly.
"If you don't have enough for rent, then I can take care of it," she says. Her gaze never wavers, making you realize she's dead serious.
You release a shaky laugh. "I'm okay for rent, Wanda. I promise."
"Then are you meeting them for a meal?" she asks quickly, her tone demanding as she watches your eyes intently.
You shake your head as much as you can while she holds your face in her palm. "No. There's no need to," you start, a wry smile pulling at your lips before you grin up at her. "I'd rather eat with you."
You wonder if she knows just how true that is.
Her tight grip finally releases on your face and your thigh. She uses her thumb to softly stroke the skin of your chin where she had held a little too hard. Before you can even blink, she leans down, pressing a lingering kiss against your chin before pulling back with a thoroughly satisfied smile.
"I'll have to take you somewhere nice then," she says simply, the warmth returning to her voice.
She pinches your cheek lightly between her index finger and thumb. Your eyes close automatically, your head leaning heavily into her hand at the familiar gesture.
You both sit there like that for a long while. Her hand remains resting on your thigh, while her other hand releases the soft skin of your cheek, pressing her warm palm against your face instead. You giggle brightly when the tiny ducklings try to snuggle up against the mother duck's feathers.
Wanda chuckles beside you, her thumb stroking your cheek delicately like you're something precious.
"What's funny, baby?" Wanda's voice raises a pitch, like the way you naturally do when you're speaking to a child. But for some reason, it doesn't bother you. It reminds you of Her and the way her voice would brighten when she'd see you.
You turn your head, giving Wanda a cute, little smile without really thinking about your words.
"They look like us."
Her eyes soften immediately, and she leans forward to press her lips softly against your cheek. "They do," she agrees, pulling back just enough to give you a smile filled with pure affection.
You both stare at the pond for a while, until Wanda glances down at her watch. You hear her take in a sharp breath before she finally releases your face. Her hand slides away from your inner thigh, leaving a sudden, chilling patch of cold skin behind.
"I'm sorry, baby, but I have to go now," she says quickly, though the profound softness remains in her voice.
Your lips instantly jut out in a pout. You move your legs off her lap, shifting on the wooden bench so you're sitting properly again. "Okay," you respond, your voice quiet and tinged with sadness. "I'll see you next time."
You force a wide smile onto your face, desperately reminding your frantic mind that you'll see her again soon.
She stands up, turning around to give you one last bright smile. "See you later, alligator," she says, her voice raised to that higher pitch again.
"Bye-bye, mommy," you respond automatically, waving your hand at her.
It's only when Wanda takes a few slow steps down the gravel path that your blood turns to ice.
Wanda freezes, suddenly coming to a stop. It feels like everything around you has paused, only Wanda's motions continuing. She turns around slowly to face you.
"S-Sorry," you stutter, your pulse hammering in your throat making your mouth turn dry. "I don't know why I said that."
She stares at you. Her green eyes are blown wide, her mouth agape as she looks at you with breathless intensity.
"Are you—"
"Moya lyubov, I'm here to pick you up," a raspy voice sounds from right behind Wanda.
Wanda's mouth freezes, but she doesn't turn around, her eyes staying on you. Your heart is beating erratically, the pounding of it almost making your ribs ache.
"Wanda?" the voice asks, but she still doesn't move, like her gaze can't leave your body.
You lean forward slightly, meeting a pair of green eyes, slightly more vibrant than Wanda's. Her hair color is similar to Wanda's, but this woman wears a power suit, nothing like the comfortable, modest clothing you see Wanda wear.
The woman walks past Wanda to you, shaking Wanda out of her stupor.
"Natash—"
"Hi, you must be the one that Wanda's been talking about," the woman starts. "I'm Natasha. Wanda's wife." Natasha lifts her hand up to you for a handshake.
Your hand lifts automatically, though it feels like your mind has gone completely blank. You shake her hand, her firm grip doing nothing to bring you back to reality.
Wife? you think frantically.
Your gaze darts down to Wanda's left hand, tracking a gold band resting on her ring finger. A ring you're absolutely certain you've never seen on her hand before today.
Then what was all of this? Eating together at restaurants, sitting side by side. Holding hands at farmer's markets because Wanda didn't want you to get lost. All the conversations you've had here a this bench.
Natasha's hand continues to hold yours in a firm grip. She scans your face, observing you closely.
"I can see why Wanda is so taken with you," she says with a small smile, though there's something else brewing behind her eyes.
You look past her to Wanda. Her eyes are wide, her face pale, like she's been caught in a terrible lie.
But Natasha knows about you. Wanda's talked to her about you.
You look back at Natasha. She doesn't look angry. Rather, she looks down at you with pity in her eyes, her lips pulled downward. The betrayal you expect to see on her face, replaced by something else entirely, sends your mind into a blur.
"What…" you start, your voice barely a whisper.
What did you just get yourself into?
—
A/N: *laughs nervously* a bit morally ambiguous here huh? i was going to make it a bit spicier, but i felt like it was a waste of the concept to rush it. idk if i'm going to leave this as a one-shot or make it into a miniseries of sorts. let me know what you think ♡
Thank you anon I have been waiting for this question my whole life
(Alright, some Headcanons are a “classic”, as in they’re pretty much accepted by the whole BlackHill fandom, but still:)
Natasha and Maria started dating shortly after Natasha joined SHIELD and they’ve been basically married before Natasha’s first scene in the mcu. Yes, that’s a long time. Yes, this is partly because she is written only as a love interest in the mcu, so we all decided the only explanation was if she was playing her love interests into following SHIELD’s orders and was just acting through the whole thing instead of admitting to the butchering of her character, welcome in Denial, we have wine and cookies
Natasha has a Demon Cat named Liho (only Black Widow can name a cat “the embodiment of evil fate and misfortune”). Legend has it Liho has something to do with Fury’s missing eye.
Natasha likes to climb Maria (a lot). That book is too high? No problem, Natasha’s just going to quickly jump on Maria’s back, climb her until she’s sitting on her shoulders, take the book and jump down. Maria has a stict training routing because the first time Natasha attempted this she reacted a moment to late, wobbled, and they both fell down disastrously. Clnt, the bastard, still laughs about that. Maria worked out her core muscles so much she could probably carry Steve Rogers on her shoulders, she is always prepared at all times now for any climbing.
Maria is unweavering. Some see Hill as either really anger-ridden or impulsive, but imo she’s the most cold and calculating person. As an abused kid she must have learned rather quickly that reacting impulsively doesn’t get you too far, she thinks through every move she has to make and anger doesn’t drive her. (As I said, there are two currents of thoughts, this is only how I see it :p)
(Now some HC that aren’t maybe as popoular:)
Maria likes to cook. She says it’s all in the name of efficency, but Natasha can she she enjoyes it, and she’s also rather good. Not, renouned chef good, but my-grandma-taught-me-how-to-cook-so-I-could-stay-at-her-place-longer-instead-of-going-back-to-my-abusive-father’s-house good. Natasha is very cool with that because she eats like a super soldier (literally, she can almost match up Steve).
Undercover jobs are hard for both of them. They have missions abroad, sure, but they can all and text and skype each other. The first time they’re apart for a very long time is when Natasha goes undercover as Natalia at Stark Industries. (Clint tease Maria because he thinks she’s going to get jealous of Stark, but she isn’t. When Pepper starts to like Natasha as an assistant, tho…”she’s your type. Older, wears suits, is in charge”, Natasha wants to laugh but she knows better) They Do Not Handle It Well. The distance is hard and their story starts as purely phisical (granted that lasts about two months but still), they don’t know what to make of the absence after spending so much time on the same giant-flying-plane-parking-lot together, seeing each other everyday. The first time Deputy Director Maria Hill disobeys an order is to sneak around with her wife to get to see her at least on their anniversary. No regrets.
Natasha is a nerd. She makes silly jokes and smirks a lot. Lots of innuendos. Lots of nerd stuff references. She hacked into the CIA for fun once. Also, Maria thinks the cutests thing ever is Natasha Romanoff eating junk food on their couch and watching The Princess Diaries for the third time. (She’s the friend that every time Anne Hathaway says something, goes “This is why she’s the queen of Genovia”). There’s this one time Maria almost cries because she remembers very well how things were when Natasha first got out of the Red Room and now she’s free and she laughs and hacks federal agencies when she’s bored and snuggles up to her on their couch and their life just seems like some kind of miracle.
Maria is softer outside of work. Slightly. She’s soft with Natasha, and at first Natasha feels like it might be because Maria is afraid of breaking her. Maria tells her Natasha is the strongest woman in the world, especially to her, her softness isn’t out of fear, but out of love. Natasha at the time isn’t ready to say it back and Maria understands that, because she loves her. (”Are you just going to keep saying that?” “Well, it’s out there now, isn’t it?”, yes, Maria is forward like that). She’s still hard and sometimes cold and closed off, but so is Natasha, and still they make it work. It’s a process. Almost everything in life is.
Natasha is the one to propose. I am ready to fight anyone on this. Maria tells her exactly one (1) time that yes, under the right circumstances, with the right person, at the right time, she would like to get married. Maria also knows Natasha has been married before and it was a disaster, it was an handler, she was forced to marry him and when they started to develop a friendship he was taken from her. So, Maria knows she’s never going to suggest they do get married. It’s not a necessity, they’re happy, they trust each other by that point with their lives and hearts and there’s no need for a piece of paper. They don’t need it, but they want it. Not the ceremony, but the marriage. The stability. They both have been always kind of scattered around waiting for the next bad thing to happen, but in each other they found an anchor. So, Natasha proposes, because she knew Maria would have never would have pressured her into it and she’s all too aware. It’s all but traditional. They’re sitting on their couch, Natasha planned the perfect date but Maria (Maria Hill, the one who gets sick once a decade) has the flu. Her nose is sticky, her eyes are heavy and there are dark circles around them, she’s wrapped up in a blanket and she’s sweating. And Natasha can’t get sick, but even if she could, she wouldn’t give up hugging Maria to comfort her. She knows Maria is in pain and she would give anything to ease it and she knows it’s the worst timing and she knows - she knows all that, but still it comes out of her mouth like she’s not been thinking about how to say it for a month: “So, I was thinking we should get married.” Maria is half asleep by the time she muster the courage. “Yeah, we should do that,” she is asleep and drooling on Natasha’s shoulder a moment later. “I- well, I kinda had a speech and a ring and-” Maria is snoring. It’s all good.
I’m so super sorry this got too long please forgive me my kind, beautiful anon!!!
can I order uhhh clingy natasha with some fluff on the side? thank you
. . . 𝚂𝙰𝙵𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴𝙽 — n. romanoff
Before you, Natasha Romanoff’s mornings were usually going on by routine. The Russian was already up before dawn, swallowing down a glass of water then going for a ten miles run. At her return, she'd shred a heavy bag in the compound gym, shower, and drink her black coffee in silence. She was a creature of early dawn and quiet efficiency.
Then, she fell in love with you.
And suddenly, the fearsome Black Widow discovered a brand-new, highly formidable weakness: the warmth of your arms.
. . . . . .
The digital clock on the nightstand glowed a soft seven forty-two am. The sun was already filtering through the gaps in the blinds — casting lazy, golden stripes across the duvet.
You shifted, gently trying to untangle your legs from the heavy warmth of the sheets, intending to slip out of bed and put the kettle on. But the moment your hips moved more than two inches away, the iron-clad grip around your waist tightened.
A protesting, sleep-heavy groan rumbled against the bare skin of your shoulder blade.
“Where are you going?” Natasha’s voice was a low, raspy purr thick with sleep and heavily laced with her slight Russian accent that only came out in moments like these—a side of her she only let guard down for you.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” you whispered, turning your head to smile at her. “I was going to make coffee. And maybe get a head start on the day.”
Instead of letting you go, she buried her face deeper into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. The redhead's nose was cold against your skin, making you shiver, but her body was like a furnace pressed against your back. She threw a shapely leg over yours, completely pinning you to the mattress.
“No,” she mumbled, her lips brushing your collarbone as she spoke. “Five more minutes.”
You let out a soft laugh, reaching up to run your fingers through her tangled red hair. “Nat, It’s almost eight.”
“Then I need ten more minutes.”
“That's not how bargaining works, Romanoff.”
“I am a master negotiator, I dictate the terms,” she murmured, tightening her arms around you until there was absolutely no space left between you. She was incredibly clingy in the mornings, a sweet, needy contrast to her sharp daytime persona.
She liked to be wrapped around you like ivy, anchoring herself to your warmth.
“What happened to the woman who used to be up and about by dawn?” you teased gently, tracing the line of her jaw. “The one who told me sleeping past six was a waste of valuable training hours?”
Natasha opened one eye, looking up at you through a fan of thick eyelashes. A lazy, incredibly fond smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
“She realized that training doesn't hug back,” she replied softly.
“And your morning run?”
“I rescheduled,” she shrugged, kissing the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, making you gasp softly. “I do night runs now. The pavement is cooler, the compound is empty, and...” She paused, trailing her fingers lightly down your arm, interlocking her fingers with yours. “..it means I don't have to miss a single second of this.”
Your heart melted a little.
It was still hard to grasp sometimes—how a woman who had spent her entire life running, fighting, and surviving now fought so hard just to stay still with you. The fact that she had completely restructured her rigid, lifelong routine just to hold you in the quiet hours of the morning was a testament to how deeply she loved you.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes,” she whispered, leaning in to press a soft, slow, lingering kiss to your lips. When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against yours, her breath warm on your skin. “I am a hostage to this bed. You'll have to stay and keep me company.”
“Well, if it's a hostage situation, I suppose I have no choice,” you smiled, wrapping your arms around her neck and pulling her close.
The Russian let out a contented sigh, burying her face back into your chest, her hand gently tracing soothing circles on your lower back. Within seconds, her breathing evened out into a calm, steady rhythm.
The coffee could wait. The world could wait.
For now, you happily surrendered to five more minutes, just for her.
The good news is, Natasha isn’t TECHNICALLY dead, since her soul was traded for the soul stone, and is now inside the stone, so Rio never took her.
The bad news is, Rio never took her, so now she’s trapped inside of the stone, in a pocket dimension, entirely alone for the rest of eternity, and since her soul was traded on Vormir its irreversible.
